


Sinfonia del Ladro

by KicktheMatt



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Just some minor backstory changes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Traumatized character, nothing too major
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-11-23 14:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KicktheMatt/pseuds/KicktheMatt
Summary: Sinfonia del Ladro - Symphony of the ThiefA boy thief from a feared thieves guild is ordered to go on a heist at a famed music academy. There, he crosses paths with a boy his age, whom he has no idea would become an integral part of his future.This tale of pasts, presents, and subsequent futures provide a coming of age story for the thief turned performer and his musical love. A symphony plays for the thief.warning: graphic depictions of violence, sad times





	1. Sonata

_“Get up.”_

The voice was rough, gravelly. It awoke Fritz slowly, the kick to the stomach that followed jerking him awake and upright.

“Boss has an assignment.” The voice, belonging to a figure unseen in the darkness, disappeared as Fritz’s eyes adjusted to the blackness. He stood, threw the dingey blanket back onto the musty straw, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He reached for the black cloak beside where he rested his head, and tied it around his neck. Beneath it was a belt of eight glistening silver knives. He put his hood up, encasing his still soft, boyish face in the shadows of the fabric.

By now, his eyes had become assimilated to the darkness. The young boy clipped the belt on, making sure each of his precious knives were in place, before stepping into some worn leather boots and setting off through the room, covered in hay and rot, where others of all ages slept soundly in the early morning-- or late night?-- dark of the sky. The shattered windows of the run-down inn-turned-squat house provided no clue to the time of day.

It was of no matter to Fritz, anyway. The Boss wanted to see him, specifically. This had to be a big job.

He placed one hand shakily on the wall beside him, letting his fingertips guide him as they ran along the worn, course cobblestone making up the structure around him. His other hand rested at his side, but ready to grab a knife when the time came. A single torch, glowing only with embers, was the only light source along the dank hallway. The rotting wood squished underneath his feet as he walked, soaked from years of rain dripping through the roof and onto the floorboards.

Fritz was one of the youngest thieves in the guild. At the ripe age of 13, he had joined three years prior, after being caught stealing food from what he thought was an abandoned shack of an inn. Instead, he had stumbled upon the food store of an elaborate guild of thieves, notorious in the area for their ruthlessness and their high prices. They stole from whomever, whenever: Nobles, shopkeeps, the poor, the rich. They stole for whoever could pay the price.

His sticky fingers had nearly gotten him caught. He had snatched as much as his little hands could hold, sprinting back to the back-alley where he had set up a small shelter for himself. It wasn’t in the most conventional or safest of spaces, but it was something to let him wait out bad weather, and rest for a few minutes if he needed it.

He had chosen to forget, even when he was 10 years old, the circumstances in which he ended up thieving to survive. By now, age 13, he genuinely couldn’t remember how he got here.

He had thought the food heist to be an easy steal, but was greeted by some goons of the guild while he tried to get more.

He had snuck around the corner of the building, non windowed, towards the open storeroom as he had done days prior. His naivety told him that he would be able steal again, grab more food, have a decent meal for once in his pitiful, small life. The prospect of solid food tempted him more than genuine safety, than skillful thinking, or a life to live.

That day, it was raining. There was nobody around who could help him, nobody who _would_ help him. The guild had left their mark on the locals: if anyone had tried to defy them, they were cut down before they could speak another word.

The rain pounded onto the gravel of the street. A blast of thunder and a bolt of lightning shocked Fritz, to which he fell to the ground, the goons standing over him menacingly, staring down the child with bloodlust in their eyes. The raindrops slapped upon his skin, stinging where it was exposed from his threadbare shirt and pants. One of the goons rose a lance, about to bring it down into Fritz’s chest. His eyes went wide and adrenaline began to pump through his veins.

Fritz was small, he was quick, and he was decently proficient with a blade.

That day, the knife he had stolen from an open shop window saved his life. He was able to cut down the goons and _run_. He was able to run like hell away, away from them, away from the town, away from whatever the hell happened behind him.

Three weeks later, in a new village, he was approached by a young man in a black cloak, an olive tunic, and worn leather boots. The cloak’s hood covered his face, but the long ears of a Sylvan were seen underneath. He handed Fritz a wax-sealed envelope, pressed with an insignia recognizable to all. An invitation into the guild from the town he skipped.

From there, it was history. Fritz made himself useful to the guild. He was rewarded with a roof over his head and a little bit of spending money if he did really well. He became their young star with a dagger. In a way, the guild was his first performance. His debut onto a world which would consistently look down upon him as he bore the signature cloak of the guild, as he would hold shop owners at knifepoint while an accomplice emptied their safes. The world would look down as he would look someone his age in the icey, glazed-over eyes as a heist went on below them, behind them.

Fritz found himself nearing the end of the hallway, where down a small flight of stairs, a doorway to the right was illuminated significantly more than the rest of the building. He gently stepped down the stairs, turning the corner to find a room lit with oil lanterns, lavishly decorated with velveteen furniture and dark oak tables and chairs. The floor was a similar oak, covered with long red rugs with golden ornate patterns swirled across them. High above Fritz, there was an oil chandelier, filling the room with a warm, orange light. The walls were littered with shelves containing pricey artifacts from all types of places: a molded gold statue taken from the High Church of Ilia, a mask encrusted with jewels from a tribe now unknown. Upon a plush sofa in the center of the room sat a man surrounded by trinkets of all worths. He wore a luxurious suit, the buttons on his dress shirt were threatening to come apart at any moment. He was eyeing a gold piece, twirling it in his sausage fingers, and grotesque graying mustache curled into a chilling grin.

He was, simply called, “the Boss”. He never gave out his name, nor where his true residence was. He was the one who did all the business for the guild. He would speak to potential clients, give his rates, and then assign any of the goons to the mission. Word has it that he is a noble of the Alberian court, and Fritz would believe it in a second.

The boss looked up from his gold piece, noticing Fritz standing, like a sore thumb, among the luxurious items of the room. “Ah, kid, come here. Careful, don’t get anything too dirty! All of you rats come through and fling mites and specks all over the carpet. It’s worth more than your life will ever be.” He let out a booming laugh and Fritz stepped closer.

“You called?” Fritz said, gazing at the Boss with an intense, tired look in his worn eyes. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for months. He looked like hell.

The Boss nodded. “I have an assignment. It’s a big deal, you’re going to have a lot on the line here.”

Fritz nodded as well. “I’m willing to accept whatever you hand me, sir.”

“That’s the spirit. A client wants 25,000 rupies for himself, from a professor at Harmonia Academy. It’s a hefty price, take at least 75,000. The job should be completed within the next few days. Take whatever measures necessary to obtain the money. I’m sending Bennet to go with you. Should you fail, it could cost you your life,” the Boss said, leaning forward, meeting Fritz’s gaze with an equally frightening look. “Remember, you’re a rat. You can be replaced. Do you want to be replaced?”

“No, sir. I do not.” He shook his head as he spoke, closing his eyes for a moment.

“ _A rat, huh? You must be one pampered pussycat to say that about anyone who’s as low as you,_ ” Fritz thought, opening his eyes to be attentive to the Boss once more.

“Then get this right the first time. Get out of my sight.”

The Boss went back to his coin. Fritz bowed lightly, then turned to leave the room. As soon as he exited the doorway, he leaned against the cobblestone wall and rubbed his eyes. As he pressed down on his eyelids, salty tears of a child soaked his hands. He shook his head.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he whispered to himself. “I gotta get my shit together.”

With one last swipe over his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, he set forth to gather supplies for the heist.

-

 _Bennet was a_ n older thief, well more experienced that Fritz. He was famed among the guild for his record of successful heists, exceeding well into the hundreds. He was gruff, a tall man with salt and pepper hair of a medium build, covered in scars from scuttles with guards and militias. He excelled with a bow, but could use nearly anything as a weapon if he could. He was sent out for the more dangerous heists. Fritz was still something of a rookie to the guild.

“Boss really did send me a scamp?” Bennet wondered out loud, his arms folded over his chest as he leaned on the wall near the entrance to the guild’s building. “I’ve heard lots about ya, kid. Ya think you’re good?”

Fritz shrugged. “Gettin’ there, at least.”

“Ya really humble, kid? Or are ya shit?” The look Bennet gave him was a challenge. Within the man’s cold, hazel eyes, he was challenging young Fritz with the sort of determination in an aged solder’s gaze.

They say that Bennet was, at one point, part of the Alberian royal guard, but that was all mere speculation. Even if it weren’t true, everyone knew better than to test him. He had no qualms with ending a life in an instant.

The boyish thief met Bennet’s challenging look with equally determined eyes. “That’s for you to judge.”

Bennet smirked, rotated his wrists, causing them to click, as he pushed himself off of the wall. “I sure will, kid. Y’know where we’re going?” He picked up a quiver of arrows at his feet.

“Harmonia. I’ve heard of it,” Fritz checked the pouch he has clipped to his belt, filled with burlap sacks folded to fit. “Some preppy music academy.”

“You’re smart, I’ll give ya that. Better not be the only good thing about ya. Let’s go,” Bennet commanded, slipping out of the doorway with the sleekness of a shadow.

Fritz pulled up his hood, making sure it covered the majority of his face. He followed Bennet out the door, turning the corner, trekking his way through the village with the veteran thief a few paces ahead of him.

The people, fearfully, stepped out of the way of Fritz and Bennet. Women held their children close, pulling them away from the thieves as they strode past. People would hold a hand over their possessions, a wallet or weapon, whatever it may be, as the two passed. Bennet parted the sea of people with an aggressive demeanor. Fritz followed in his shadow, as the pedestrians would form back into fish-like schools around Fritz as they walked.

Fritz felt this as a sort of power he wished he didn’t have. The guild had instilled that much fear into the people, that they would jostle each other and step as far out of the way as they could, hoping, praying that they wouldn’t become the guild’s newest target. To remain out of the sights of the guild was in one’s best interest: it ensured their survival, for at least a little while.

The thieves continued down the streets of the village. All was worn-- the streets themselves, laid out in once magnificent brick, had cracked and crumbled with minimal upkeep. The wood trimmings of all of the buildings were beginning to rot. The village didn’t look too different from the inside of the guild’s inn. The only ounce of life, of comfort, of warmth, were found in dimming lights in the cracked windows of the buildings.

The two eventually reached the end of the main road, the brick fading into gravel and dust as the secluded village turned into a road. Down this dusty road, battered with fossilized footprints, it would eventually run through a forest, where a turn would appear among the pines, towards the academy the heist shall take place.

They walked in silence. The sun was setting as they neared the forest. From here, they would go through the pines, rather than down the path, as to keep themselves from being seen. In the dark, they pushed aside large, needle-filled branches as they trekked through the trees.

As they neared the academy, Bennet had begun to hold his bow in front of him, an arrow nocked and ready to fire at any moment. Fritz followed suit, a dagger held heavy in his palm.

The Academy in front of them, visible through a clearing in the brush, was massive and castle-like. The walls were made of finely laid stone brick, worn slightly from the weather, but the sheer mass of the building distracted from all sorts of weathered appearances. To the side where the thieves hid among the trees, a rounded tower protruded from the building, flanked on either side by buttresses keeping the large walls in place. Four tall, slim windows started about two-thirds of the way up the tower, wrapping around the edge and coming to a point just below where the roof of the tower began. An ornate shingled cone of a roof covered the tower, similarly shingled roofs covered other parts of the building as well. A stone trim along the bottom edge of the roof gave the building an extraordinarily ornamented appearance-- whoever paid for this building to be built definitely had the money for it. On either end of the trim, a stone dragon sat, staring into the trees with eyes of garnet. Two higher, thinner towers stood behind the main tower, for decoration surely. They had a similar design to the center tower, held up by a boxy main component of the building. Adorned at the tips were bronze statues of Ilia, in her hands holding a horn.

The moon hung above the building, the bottom edge being scraped by the wings of the goddess statues. It gave the area a mystical, mysterious feel. Fritz’s breath caught as he gaped at the academy building in front of him.

Bennet gestured to the tower ahead. “I’ll climb the wall to the window. I’ll leave a rope down so you can follow. Keep watch, don’t let anyone see us. If we’re caught, I can and will leave ya here to get your head chopped off,” Bennet hissed, venom spitting from every word in his last sentence.

Fritz nodded in acknowledgement to Bennet’s statement. The elder thief then sprung from the brush after checking around for any guardsmen on the perimeter. He shot an arrow up towards one of the windows, a rope tied to the end of it to help pull him up. He climbed up the wall, perching on a dragon’s pedestal and finding a latch to open part of a window. He turned back towards the brush, gesturing for Fritz to follow.

The boy sprinted through the open field to the rope, where he began the climb up the tower. About halfway up, he held onto the rope with one hand, and leaned out over the edge, seeing above the treetops.

About a mile out, he could see the lights from a traveling caravan. Distant lights from a village on the horizon flickered in the late-night fog. The fields past the pines were breathtaking. The warm breeze floated around him, capturing him in an airy embrace. The breeze suddenly sped just as he began to enjoy it. His hair whipped around in his hood, which fell down his head as a particularly large gust of wind blew towards him, leaving his swaying slightly on the side of the tower, 50 feet in the air. He could’ve sworn he had heard the wind beckoning him by name. He whipped his head around, trying to find the source of the sound. He shook his head when he realized what he was doing.

Fritz knew he couldn’t dawdle any longer. He scurried up the rest of the rope, gently climbing into the building from the open window. Bennet motioned for Fritz to follow him as soon as the boy set foot on the wooden floor.

The inside of the castle was just as brilliant as the outside. Lacquered mahogany floors were lined down impressive, arch-filled hallways. Above them, as arches held up tall ceilings, encarved characters of some language were noted on the tips of the arches. The building was incredibly silent. It was eerie, if Fritz were being honest. A music academy that is silent feels like a world that has no light. Within the wood floors, extravagant patterns were made from the floorboards. In the tower section, the wood was carved to depict a piano, a trumpet, a harp, and some other instrument Fritz couldn’t recognize with many strings attached to the neck, in a pear-shape and f-shaped holes on the sides. The instruments sat on the edges of a compass.

Bennet was heading down one of the hallways, the one pointing to the east, according to the compass. Fritz followed him, light on his feet, hyper aware of the building around him. He remembered that his hood fell down, and pulled it up as he began to walk.

The two came across some rooms, one of which had a large, wooden door with hundreds of engravings along it. Behind the door, Fritz swore he could her the tapping of piano keys. Bennet paid no attention to it, continuing around the corner of the corridor. Fritz followed.

“Here,” Bennet whispered, gesturing to a door down the hall. “That’s where the professor is. Hand me a sack.”

Fritz opened the pouch on his hip, handing a couple of sacks to the man in front of him.

“Good, I’m gonna pick the door if it’s not already unlocked. I want ya to stay out here and make sure no guards come by. If any come by, take ‘em out. I’ll fill the sack, go back and fill t’other. Take the sack if we gotta run.”

Fritz nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Bennet began to sneak down the hallway, carefully picking at the lock to the professor’s room.

The young thief looked around, peeking around corners, making sure that no guards were coming down either hallway. Bennet slowly opened the door and walked in. A moment later, there was a yell from the room. Fritz’s skin crawled as the yell died down, choked on something.

“ _Gods, did he kill him?_ ” Fritz thought, slowly moving down the hall, closer to the door.

A moment later, a sack fell through the doorway. From the hallway around the corner, quick steps were coming closer to the room.

“Shit,” Fritz said, grabbing the sack.

Bennet ran out of the room, the other sack over his shoulder. “Had to kill the geezer. Run!”

The thieves began in the opposite direction of the steps. A moment later, a yell.

“Thieves! Stop! Get ‘em!” A guard shouted, holding up a halberd.

Fritz ran faster. He turned, then heard a thud behind him. On the ground, few feet away, Bennet laid on the ground, a halberd sticking out of his back. The sack slid a few feet away from Fritz. Blood pooled around the thief, as he tried to move to grab the sack. Bennet sat up, looking towards Fritz, trying to choke out some plea of help, but blood frothed up around his lips instead, choking him.

Fritz looked at the dying man, reached down, grabbed the sack, and continued running.

He ran past the ornate door, both sacks over his shoulder, hearing the door behind him open. He didn’t waste any time, he ran past and dumped one of the sacks out the window. He turned to see how much time he had, and instead of being met with guards and spears, he saw a boy.

The boy stared at him, wide-eyed and frightened. His icey eyes were highlighted by a moonbeam through the window. His hair, dark, blended with the shadows around him. He couldn’t of been any older than Fritz himself. He wore a white buttoned shirt and gray trousers. His mouth was open slightly, as if he were hesitating to scream out. The boy paled, scared out of his wits. His hands closed to fists, and he took a small step backwards.

Fritz locked eyes with the boy, feeling goosebumps run down his arms and legs, shivers going down his spine. Behind the boy, he heard footsteps from the guards catching up to him. Fritz reached towards a dagger on his belt.

It seemed like an eternity had passed until the guards arrived. Time slowed down. The boy’s shakes, tears running down his cheeks in fear, and wide eyes being the only things caught up with the honest flow of time.

As soon as one of them appeared around the boy, Fritz threw. The dagger swiftly left Fritz’s palm. The guard stopped in his tracks, a silver dagger lodged in his chest, in his heart. Crimson blood splattered along the walls, and Fritz took this as his chance to escape. He threw the other sack out of the window, then began to scale down the rope.

He jumped off the tower when he was about 10 feet off the ground, rolled, picked up the sacks, and sprinted as quickly as he could through the woods, taking the path he and Bennet had taken earlier.

He ran, he heaved, he sobbed, all at once as he ran through the woods, to the road. He didn’t stop running for what felt like hours. His lungs burned, his legs ached, the sacks over his shoulder seemed to fill with lead and he sprinted through the night.

Morning rays began to rise when he finally stopped running. By then, he had reached the guild’s village.

His face was sticky with tears. He collapsed on the side of the path, wheezing, no amount of air entering his lungs was enough to ease the fire in his throat. He vomited, there, on the edge of the road, the gruesome image of Bennet’s blood-soaked body ingrained into the back of his eyelids. The boy thief took a look at his hands, at the sack, both crusted with blood. Bennet’s. It caused him to vomit again. He dry-heaved for a few minutes, what very well could’ve ended up being hours. He let out a groan, a wail, for the comrade he had to leave behind.

One of the first things Fritz learned in the world was to never grow attached, never have any emotional connection to anyone or anything, because at any moment it could all be torn away from him. At any moment, without warning, anything can be snatched away from his hands, whether he be cold and stiff with a knife through his gut, or physically ripped in front of his eyes, and his mortal soul having to live with the regret, the guilt, the pain of losing something. Despite how awfully the guild treated him, the guild was the closest thing to a family that Fritz had.

His parents dropped dead in front of him. The guild picked him up, years later. The guild was the only family that Fritz had ever known.

Fritz’s throat burned, he felt weak, but he still picked up the sacks and walked into the village. He wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to remove all images of tears that may remain on his face.

The sea of people still parted, this time with looks of compassion on their horrified faces. Fritz had come back alone. They knew.

His eyes stared, unblinking, as he crossed the town and entered the guild’s inn, going straight to the Boss’s room. The Boss was busy studying some artifact or another, but looked up at the blood-covered boy as he entered.

“What the hell-”

Fritz had already dumped the sacks onto the ground. “Bennet is dead.”

The Boss leaned forwards, looking from the sacks, to Fritz. “What do you _mean_ , Bennet is _dead_?”

“I mean that Bennet is dead. He got caught by the guards. I escaped.”

The Boss’s mouth gaped like a dumb fish.

Fritz inhaled, willing himself to keep his tears hidden until another time. “The first rule is to always get the job done, right? Leave people to die if you gotta. I did that. I got the damn money. Bennet just didn’t happen to make it.”

The Boss nodded, grimly. “That is the first rule. You did well, son. If Bennet couldn’t make it, it’s a miracle you did. Leave the money. Go get washed up. Come back after you’re done, I’ll pay you then.”

The Boss pointed Fritz vaguely in the direction of the nicer bathroom, behind him in the lavish room. Fritz made his way there, opened the door, and walked into the bathroom. The floors were made of tile, and in the corner there was a clean bathtub with a water pump. There were more lamps in this room, casting the walls a soft orange.

Fritz fell to the ground and curled into a ball. Silent tears rolled down his face. The tile was cold and almost stung. He shivered, shaked, jerking forward with silent sobs. He could feel the chill from the floor rising through his skin to his bones, numbing him all over his body. It was reminiscent of that night, with the goons in the rain. Everything felt like ice.

_Ice._

The boy with the ice eyes. Another sob rolled through Fritz. The eyes wouldn’t leave his mind. His vision blurred the tiles together, but the clearness of the boy’s eyes stayed.

-

 _“Oh, he i_ s the epitome of talent, madame. He brings such a lovely aire to the choir. However, he’s been seeming incredibly off lately--”

Vixel had already left the room. His mother, father, and the dean of the academy all conversed in the office, an appointment set up months prior to check on his schooling.

The Harmonia Academy for the Musically Inclined was a boarding school for the musically elite. Vixel had been enrolled as soon as he reached the age minimum. He had a passion for music, even from a young age, and came from a family with a longstanding musical background. It only made sense that he went to the same academy where his father and mother, and their parents, and their grandparents, and nearly everyone he was related to went as well.

His mother was a famed songstress, his father her instructor. They met at this very school when they were in their first years. From then on, they had a love that bloomed and manifested all the way through their last school years. After that, Vixel’s father became an instructor, and trained Vixel’s mother in singing. They still performed to this day. Vixel, naturally, inherited his musical prowess from his family. His love for singing from his mother, his talent on piano from his father. He was a prodigy, to say the least. A musical savant of his generation. He had been told all his life that his voice was nothing short of angelic.

“ _The very quintessence of purity and beauty is what your singing voice is, Vixie. You may be able to even beat me in a singing competition one of these days!_ ” His mother would tell him after a recital, or when he had been practicing when he was home for the holidays.

The spring vacation had just ended, and Vixel was freshly 13, returning to the school to complete the semester. If Vixel were to be completely honest with himself, he almost didn’t want to come back.

The course of the school year had been incredibly hard for him. His voice had begun to deepen, and it distressed him immensely. He had prided himself on being able to hit the high notes of any piece that came his way, being able to sneak into the soprano range if he really had time to practice. It was unusual for someone who is male to do such a thing, but the time had come for the high notes to disappear, and the deep baritone and bass notes to come in its stead.

It sent Vixel into something of a depression. He found himself distancing himself from the choir, and spending more and more time in the company of the piano, where he would compose melodies for himself, sorrowful and heavy.

He had problems sleeping, constantly fearfully awaiting the day he’d be moved to the bass choir in the Academy, losing all of the good friends he had made in the years he was in the Harmonia treble choir. There were rumors that he’d be moved among the other students: word had it that a new student was joining after spring vacation was over. The snickers of his peers were as tritones to his ears: brash, jarring, and upsetting.

To Vixel, all sounds were music. Some sounds, however, were far too much for his sensitive ears to handle.

He was a bit over-emotional about the topic. The switch in choir would be detrimental to his stability. He found himself growing incredibly anxious at the thought of his routine being disturbed without ample notice. He felt comfortable with the steady repetition of his school day, feeling uneasy on the days off of class or when home on holiday. It seemed as if he weren’t comfortable anywhere that wasn’t his classrooms during the times he was in class. Even semester changes, a class or two being switched out for others had him feeling as if there were a split between his soul and body for a short period of time. Vixel did not embrace change easily. He had to ease into it, if he truly was to assimilate to a new schedule.

As nothing was confirmed, he merely had to lie in wait. He hated uncertainty. Almost as much as he hated his schedule being tampered with.

He leaned against the stone walls outside of the dean’s office, looking skyward to the high, curved ceiling, decorated in a near ancient painting depicting the union of Ilia and Elysium to overcome the great Demon. The wall to the right was made of glass, shining orange within the evening sunset. The tones from the sunset spilled over the painting, accentuating the shadows in some places but bathing the goddess and her dragonic ally in rich, warm oranges in others. It was an inspiring piece, Vixel had to admit. He never truly took the time to look at it, however. He normally passed through this hall every day to go from on class to another, never truly having time to study it.

From behind the door, he heard shuffling, some polite “thank you”s from his parents and the dean, and then the door opening and his parents walking out.

Vixel’s mother and father both were very stunning individuals. They were made for the stage-- graceful in movement and in manner. His mother’s voice was warm and soft, tender and motherly. She had a perpetual smile on her face, tight-lipped yet genuine. Her eyes were the same stunning blue as Vixel’s, one of the many traits he shared with her. She had long, dark brown curls that gently fell around her face and down her back. She was dressed in a white, extravagant dress, gold trimmings along the ends and creating a sort of pattern reminiscent of lightning strikes up the skirt and onto the main body of the dress. Her sleeves were made of lace, and she held a golden shawl around her shoulders. To many, she was a maiden of purity, many telling her she rivaled the intensity of Ilia herself. To that, Vixel’s mother always gave her classic tight-lipped smile and thanked for the compliment, yet denied her rivalry with the goddess herself.

Vixel’s mother embraced him, tightly. “We must be off, but we shall come back in a few weeks time for a progress report from your teachers. Are you alright, Vixie? Is anything the wrong?”

Vixel shook his head. “No, nothing. Everything is fine, mother.”

“If you need anything, you need only to write,” his father chimed in.

His father was equally charming as his mother. He had black hair, combed to smoothness and styled with dignity. Thin-framed glasses sat upon the bridge of his nose, accentuating green eyes that contained an immense passion and happiness. His father was incredibly obsessed with his appearance, Vixel had rarely seen him not in some sort of suit-like attire. He was in a gray vest and slacks this day, a white button-up shirt underneath with a gold tie matching Vixel’s mother’s shawl. He carried himself nobley, his arms in a resting position behind his back, one hand grasping the other hand’s wrist. He was incredibly intelligent as well; he made sure that his son received the best schooling he could before enrolling in Harmonia.

“I know, and I will write if anything needs to be brought to your attention.” Vixel stepped away, slightly, causing his mother to break their embrace. She looked at him sadly, then stood to join his father.

“As your mother said, we’ll be back in a few weeks. The dean says you’ve been marvelous in all of your classes. Keep up the great work, son,” his father said. “Goodbye for now, then.”

“Goodbye,” Vixel murmured, beginning to walk his parents towards the stairwell in a neighboring hallway.

His parents walked down the stairs, his mother turning to flash him one more smile and a wave before they disappeared towards the next flight.

Vixel slowly waved back. As soon as his parents had left, he turned towards the practice room.

The room, accentuated mostly by the immensely elaborate dark mahogany door at its entrance, was filled with too many instruments for one to count. It was where the orchestra stored their instruments, but also where the performance choirs practiced for their concerts. In the center of the room was a stark ebony grand piano with ivory white keys. The top was still open after being previously tuned earlier in the day. The cushioned bench shared the same pitch black as the piano itself, the pedals resting towards the bottom adorned with a beautiful gold. Here, Vixel had been finding himself perched at the bench more and more, one foot tapping out as a metronome, and the other resting on one of the pedals as he struck key after key, passionately playing chord after chord in melodies and harmonies of his own creation. He would tend to lose himself in his music, playing into the late hours of the night, unheard in the halls by the heavy door absorbing the noise.

All of the practices for upcoming concerts had finished by the evening, and this left Vixel alone with only the piano as company.

And so he began playing a small melody, one he had found himself tapping out for the past few days, a memory-hook of a tune that just couldn’t be written any further than the couple-of-bars long segment. It frustrated Vixel to no end; He wanted to write more for it, but no matter what he did, the melancholic sequence was merely played over and over, alone. Played out loud in the desolate room, with no other company besides the orchestra’s instruments and the books containing the sheet music for the choir. There was no harmony, no accompaniment that could join in.

Funny, how a single melody could tell a myriad of stories.

Vixel merely sat at the piano and played, played for hours until the sun sank well beneath the horizon and the only ones in the academy who were awake were himself and the notes being slowly struck into existence.

The keys of the piano came solemnly alive, warming to the touch as Vixel repeated the bars, filling him with comfort with the repetition. The mellow tones falling from within the instrument told a story, but of what? He had always heard his professors and his parents speak of music telling a _story_ \-- but the story within the music Vixel played then was unwritten. Despite having played it to near death, he still couldn’t decipher what the notes were telling him.

It was dark, lonely, yet still having some amount of hope. What story was this?

Vixel found himself playing the piece faster, then slower, hoping it would help him in understanding what the hidden story was. The story remained elusive. Then, in the middle of a chord, he heard a blood-curdling scream. He froze, unsure of if he were merely hearing things. He couldn’t move, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Yelling was heard from the halls. Vixel heard the word “ _thieves_ ” come from a guard outside. Heavy footsteps pounded in the hallway, then paused. A thud was heard outside in the hallway, along with the skidding sound of a heavy object. Vixel stood, the piano bench falling behind him, and ran towards the door to look for the commotion.

He heaved as he pulled open the heavy door, right as a figure ran past him, carrying two burlap sacks. Vixel followed the figure, stepping out from the doorway and turning into the hallway.

As he followed the figure, they came to one of the corner portions of the academy, where a compass depicted into the floor laid, and a window in the rounded tower hung open. The figure-- now, in the moonlight, Vixel recognized as a boy that seemed no older than he-- had thrown a burlap sack out of the window, and down towards the ground. The boy turned, then caught Vixel’s eye.

He was filthy, his cloak covering most of his greasy blonde hair. His hands and his clothes were covered in dirt and blood. He had piercing amber eyes, irises intensely widened with the adrenaline surely pumping through his veins at an alarming rate. He stood in a defensive stance, a hand slowly inching towards his belt, where Vixel could see many polished silver knives.

The knives glinted in the moonlight. Vixel began to hyperventilate, right as he heard more footsteps behind him of a guard reaching where the two stood in the corridor.

At an instant, as soon as the guard pushed Vixel aside, the boy threw a dagger. It happened so quickly, yet all time slowed down as Vixel was pushed to the wall from the guard. The guard then fell, a knife lodged in his chest.

Blood spurt from the wound. Vixel couldn’t help but watch with horror.

The boy scurried out the window, and Vixel ran towards it and looked outside. He could vaguely see the figure disappear into the trees. His hands gripped the sill, his knuckles turning white while he heard more guards appear behind him. He shook, shivered. He refused to turn around. He merely stared out into the darkness, replaying the scenes of the knife hitting the guard’s chest and the boy who threw it in his mind. His eyes remained unblinking.

Next that Vixel knew, he was being escorted to the dormitories.

He laid in his bed, staring at the wall, nearly unblinking. The scratchy blanket that covered his shoulders felt like the worst pain imaginable. The rose colors of the wallpaper and the deep brown trim began to hurt his eyes. They became sharper, more vibrant-- he felt pain as he tried to process all of it. The sounds of the snores around him felt as if they had grown as loud as thunderclaps. His head pounded with every noise around him. Everything hurt. His clothes felt too tight, too painful, as if the clothes he wore were made of pure razor blades instead of soft fabric. He was constricted, so he thought, in garments ten sizes too small.

He found himself shivering in bed for hours, held down by his own clothing, until the sun began to rise above the horizon and shine through the windows. He was close to having a meltdown, to screaming and crying and shaking. He wanted to rid himself of all of the senses around him, to go into a non-physical state until he could calm down. He wished for the world to pause, while he was able to comfort himself in a world other than this.

Instead he cried, he shook, and he stared, until the sun rose. By then he began to calm down; colors weren’t so harsh, sounds weren’t too loud. His clothes felt like they had let go of him in their death-like grip.

The boys in the bunks around Vixel began to stir, awoken by the rays of light pouring through the windows. They began to mutter “good mornings”, then rose to begin the day.

“Hey, the door’s locked! Which one of you locked it?” One of the boys asked, returning from the entrance of the dormitory with an annoyed tone.

Vixel lifted himself up onto his elbows from the mattress, looking at the boy in confusion.

Another boy jumped down from the bunk above Vixel. “Well, wasn’t me,” He paused as he reached the floor, turning towards Vixel. “Damn, Vix, you look like hell. What happened to ya?”

Vixel rubbed his eyes, red and raw from silent crying. “I...didn’t sleep,” He replied, simply, hoping to not gain any attention from the other boys.

He threw his legs over the side of the bunk, rolling his shoulders as he tried to dispel the tenseness they had gathered.

“I’m pretty sure ya came in late, right? What happened out there?”

Before Vixel could respond, there was the sliding of a bolt lock on the door and the Headmaster of the academy and another professor walked in.

The Headmaster was a graying old woman, always uptight and always dressed to perfection. She was a talented orchestra performer in her old days, but since retiring from music she had become of the highest position in the academy.

This day, she looked grave, dressed in black with a pale complexion. Her graying hair curled into a tight bob, and she wore minimal makeup for the day, as opposed to her usual wear with many more elements added on. She held her arms behind her back as she walked in, with a trembling lip but a strong demeanor nonetheless.

“Gentlemen,” she began, “There had been multiple tragedies during the night. You are all ordered to remain within your dormitories until further notice. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner with be brought to you directly. Should you need anything, there will be staff members within the corridors, merely come to the doorway and ask.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the chorus from the boys in the dorm. As the Headmaster turned to leave, the boys looked at each other, as one began to use a spare blanket to cover the window.

They began chattering excitedly about being able to sleep in, as they all began to climb back up into their bunks. Vixel slowly laid back down. He stared at the bottom of the bunk above, and replayed the events of the night before repeatedly.

Surely, he would be in trouble for being in the corridors past curfew. Surely he would be brought into the Headmaster’s office for questioning. Was he ready for such? Not whatsoever.

The boy thief, no older than he, was so disheveled, so distraught-- he looked at Vixel with such an intensity that it pierced his very soul, like the dagger piercing the flesh of the guard. If Vixel were afraid, he could only imagine what the boy felt.

It was silent in the dorm. It was anything but silent in Vixel’s mind.

-

 _The next mor_ ning Vixel found the truth from the two nights prior: A professor from the orchestral department, and a guard had been killed that night. Although Vixel didn’t know the professor directly, many of the older students in the school’s orchestra had him for a teacher. As the students filed into the auditorium, many of Vixel’s older peers were teary-eyed and nearly unresponsive. They took small steps, heavy steps, as they sat in the seats of the performance hall.

According to rumors, one of the thieves were killed as well.

“ _So there was an accomplice,_ ” Vixel thought to himself. The boy had not been alone.

There was a funeral held at the academy for the professor and guard, held in a performance hall; the body of the thief was taken by the local Alberian guard to be disposed of.

The performance hall housed hundreds of seats, with three tiers of seats piling high into a plush burgundy and gold hall. The area around the stage was decorated in magnificent pillars holding up the tall roof, which rose with statues of the dragon Elysium and Ilia towards the top, the stair-painted ceiling being held up, gingerly, by the hands of the goddess and the tails of the dragon. Below the night sky ceiling fell one tier of velvet chairs, then two others below it, each jutting forward more than the last. The seats were all adorned in dark wood, with golden buttons tufted onto the cushions. Between sections of seats were carmine runner carpets, bounding down stairs from the back of the hall forward, having the tiers slope down towards the stage. The hall was incredibly ornate, and the people in the seats paled to the mass of it.

The stage itself was set into the wall, a proscenium-style theatre with a bloodwood base stage floor, surrounded on all sides by the pillars. Golden curtains fell in the back of the stage, and similar curtains flanked the edges of it, encasing the stage in a warm, shimmering embrace. In the upper-right corner of the stage, there was a set of choir risers, and as the lights began to fall in the hall for the beginning of the funeral, two dozen teenagers filed onto the risers, dressed in white.

All were in attendance for the funeral. The senior choirs sang in the large performance hall, as two caskets were brought onto the stage. The acapella voices sang of heavens, of peace, of love from Ilia, and of a hope and light. A priest, dressed in pure, pressed white robes, came to speak; his voice was booming from the stage as he asked everyone to pay their respects to the fallen. He led the students in prayer.

Vixel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The funeral had been going on for hours now. As the choirs began the sing again, he tapped the beat on his knee with his fingers, allowing himself to conform to the rhythm of the music he heard, projecting up to him, from yards away on the stage below to where he sat in the third tier.

He felt drained. He was around so many noises, so many people, in chairs that although incredibly luxurious became hard after sitting for hours. The wooden bars underneath the seats began to dig into his legs. He couldn’t focus on one thing for too long. Even the rest of the students around him began to shuffle restlessly. None of them wished to be there any longer.

Eventually, the caskets were taken away backstage, where they would then be transported to cemeteries to be buried. The professors began to dismiss the students from the seats. They all filed out of the performance hall, slowly dragging their feets as they walked, harshly squinting as they were exposed to the light of day outside of the dim theatre. Vixel kept his eyes down on his feet as he left the hall and eventually followed his peers back to the dorms.

As the groups passed the orchestral performance wing, guards stood in the entryway to the east hallway. There was still blood stained along the floor and wall of the hall. The boys ahead of Vixel began whispering, and he slowly lifted his head to gaze at the spatter covering the walls. He began to feel nauseous, quickly snapping his gaze back down to the ground. The scenes of that night played again in his mind. He clenched his fists, willing the images to go away, but they wouldn’t cease. No matter how hard Vixel tried, he could only see himself, the guard, and the boy with the silver daggers.

-

 _The end o_ f the week came, and the Academy was right back on schedule. Class was still being held, relatively similarly to before, other than the chilling aire of the eastern orchestra wing. By then, the older students had started telling others that it was going to be haunted. It scared the younger students away from the hall, afraid that being over by the orchestra wing would result in harm from the professor, guard, or even worse-- the thief.

Vixel didn’t believe in these childish tales, yet he still felt and immense amount of unease surrounding that portion of the school. Despite this unease, Vixel longed for the piano, there he could play away his worries and fears as he had done for years prior. Now, all he could think of was the boy thief.

He had made the decision that he were not to write to his family about the tragedies at the academy. The Headmaster would’ve already sent out some sort of message to the families of the students-- Vixel’s parents didn’t need to hear it again. He dreaded their response, whatever it would be. They would likely race to the academy, be overwhelmingly worried for him, demand the security measures at the academy be improved so as this never happens again. It would be far too much for Vixel to handle. He already tires from their constant doting.

He found the next weeks to be filled with questions, rumors. The students had begun to suspect if Vixel had anything to do with the tragedies. His peers came to him, asking him, probing him for information about it, to which Vixel consistently told them to go away. He didn’t want to relive the night’s events. He already did that enough by himself.

Eventually, the buzz died down, and the students began to focus on other topics than that fateful night. The weight on Vixel’s shoulders was lifted, just slightly, relieving him of the pressure from the anguish he felt about it all.

He had nearly forgotten about the incoming transfer student until she arrived.

As soon as he had seen her, he could tell that he was going to be moved to another choir. The transfer student stood on one of the choir risers, her hands clasped in front of her. She had long white hair that fell over her shoulders, blending in with the white button up shirt that was required for the school uniform. She wore a knee-length black skirt, also part of uniform, with black stockings and small heels with a golden buckle. She had on a smile, giving out that smile to her fellow students as they passed. She smiled with her whole face, her eyes closed, the very epitome of grace and loveliness.

Vixel had to walk past her to get to his assigned spot on the risers. He looked down at his shoes, hoping he could walk past quickly--

“Good morning! How do you do?” Even her speaking voice was lovely.

Vixel cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m doing well.” He hurried on before they could converse any more.

He couldn’t help but keep his eyes to the floor as the new student was introduced to the class. Lucretia, as she was apparently called, was a transfer from another music academy on the other side of Grastaea. She had a voice like honey, and a singing voice like silk. Despite loving singing with all of his heart, and never having skipped a day in class, Vixel’s mouth stayed closed the entire class period. Nobody seemed to notice.

The class period ended, and the students began to file out of the room. Vixel found himself nearly running, bolting past everyone else into the slowly crowding halls. He felt as if his limbs were made of lead and slowed further in molasses as he tried to make his way to his next class. His chest felt tight, his eyes burned, his clothes felt too scratchy. He couldn’t make it to his next class quick enough.

That night, sitting on his dorm bed, facing the wall, he wrote a letter to his father. He hastily wiped away tears as he scribbled his situation into the contents of the paper.

He didn’t want to be in Harmonia anymore. The teasing only would get worse. And ever since that night, he hadn’t felt comfort. He just wanted to leave music behind him, never for it to be a part of him again. He was ashamed of himself, of his voice, of everything about him.

As he wrote, he knew of the shame his family would have towards him. He knew that they’d be disappointed. At this point, he didn’t care. He didn’t care that his schedule would change or that his family would be upset. He just wanted out.

He sealed the envelope, sticking it under his pillow, and laid down. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell into a rack of silent sobs.


	2. Aria

_Air pushed thro_ ugh Fritz’s lungs as he sprinted through the bright green foliage, a sack filled with coins over his shoulder. He knocked some of the branches aside with his arm, the sharp points of the sticks scratching at his arms and face. His black hood fell from his head, the rest of his cloak trailing behind him as he sprinted. He laughed as he hopped over a log. Twigs became caught in his shirt sleeve, poking into the cloth and irritating his skin, yet he cared not. He felt _alive_. What a strange thing to feel alive, running from royal guards. The heist he was just on was a dangerous one-- stealing from one of the seven Alberian heir’s castle and vaults. Fritz was the star of the guild. He knew what he was doing, he was incredibly experienced. He could handle this kind of heist himself.

Fritz, now, was 19. He had grown into a fine young man-- he was lanky yet strong, quick, and handsomely tall. He developed a cat-like charm. He grew clever, having a strange way with words around everyone he met. His life in the guild improved dramatically after the Harmonia heist, all those years ago. He built a reputation for being tougher-than-Bennet, for being incredibly good with his knives, for being the most successful thief in the guild. He became the Boss’s favorite. Fritz secretly despised it, since he was lower than trash in the Boss’s eyes before that heist. Perhaps he had earned this role-- perhaps it was from pity. Fritz couldn’t tell anymore.

He became something of a standard. New blood joined the guild, and they were always told to be like _Fritz_. Get as many goods as _Fritz_. Become as proficient with a weapon as _Fritz_. Earn the Boss’s trust like _Fritz_. As _Fritz_ this, as _Fritz_ that… He could feel the pressure and expectations weighing down on him like a lead sinker, but it always inspired to go bigger, do better. He always pulled on that weight and hook, never letting it take him alive. He never missed his mark. He always hit his target.

For being in as awful of a situation as his, he celebrated some amount of luxury. He was paid handsomely for his efforts, as handsomely as a thief can be paid. He had enough money to buy himself new daggers and some good food every once in a while. He’d hardly say he was _well off_ , but definitely better than some recruits.

Fritz ducked around a tree, catching his breath and staring into the green bushes behind him. The bag fell to the ground as he leaned against the protruding bark. His breathing was heavy, but ever still silent. The forest was alive with the sounds of yelling, the sounds of royal guards trampling through the brush, banging steel weapons along the trees and rocks they encountered. They were getting closer, but slowly-- clanky armor with limited mobility gave Fritz the upper hand when it came to woodland escapades.

He snatched the bag back up and took off again, bolting down the clearings between the thick trees in the woods. Then, from behind him, he heard an arrow plunge into the ground, merely a foot away. Fritz sped up, his long legs taking him faster through the brush, one arm shielding his eyes as he plummeted through unforgiving branches.

He found himself in a clearing, ahead of him some bright red and white tents. From behind, the army was gaining on him. He had to act quickly, or his life could be at stake. He bolted across the clearing, slipping into one of the tents from a slat in the side.

Once inside, he saw a few crates, to which he knelt behind them to shield himself from outside eyes. As footsteps pounded past the tent, Fritz breathed a sigh of relief. The thief sat on the musty floor, his back to the crates as he stared ahead, attempting to control his breathing after the chase. He relaxed, his head resting against the worn wooden crate.

Above his head, burned onto a diagonal slat of wood, were the words “ _Cirque Alberia_ ”.

The tent was empty, barre Fritz and multiple crates and baskets containing a multitude of colorful items. The floor had footprints imprinted into the dirt, the grass pushed down and ripped until the dirt below peeked through. The footprints were most concentrated at an opening ahead of him, two pieces of the tent’s walls tied back to create a sort of doorway to enter. Outside, he could see another larger tent nearby. There was a commotion from within it, the sounds of shouting from within. It raised no alarm in Fritz-- there was no indication of distress in the booming words from the other tent.

He willed his eyelids to close, to give him some amount of rest before he would take off towards the guild’s town again. He kept the bag clenched tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white and he hung onto the sack as if his life depended on it. Even in a resting state, he still remained on edge.

Fritz was on the verge of a light sleep before he heard footsteps nearing the space he resided. His eyes snapped open, to find a young girl standing in front of him, her head cocked slightly to the side in question.

The girl, a blonde-haired Sylvan with lamb-like ears, stood in an extravagant orange tutu adorned with bows and ruffles of orange, blue, and red. She had an energetic, curious aire about her-- she didn’t express any amount of fear whatsoever in her demeanor. One of her ears were perked up more than the other, inquisitively.

The thief began to scramble to stand, but found lying near him a large creature, resembling a lavender big cat. The creature had an intense energy, making Fritz scramble away in a moment. The creature stood-- a dragon, Fritz figured-- and towered over him. He was hardly at the dragon’s shoulder. The dragon began to stand, the flews of its mouth lifting as it growled, revealing long, sharp, flavescent fangs. It began to prowl around him, its green eyes never leaving Fritz as the growling grew louder.

As the dragon creeped around the girl, she held her hand to the glistening scales on its arm. The dragon stopped its growling.

“Liger, be nice!” She said, the inflection in her voice stern yet bubbly as she scolded the dragon. She couldn’t of been more than 14.

Fritz turned and began to walk away, lifting the sack he carried to his shoulder, heading towards the slits in the side of the tent. In the time he snoozed, the sun was beginning to lower, shining through the striped tent and warming the colors as it shone through the fabric. The girl spoke up.

“Hi, how are ya? The name’s Annelie!” The hat she wore jingled as she animatedly spoke. It was a two-tailed circus hat of yellow and orange. “What’re you doing in here?”

Fritz sighed, stopping in his tracks, his head turning only slightly towards Annelie. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” He asked, somewhat annoyed. He shifted the sack to a more comfortable position

“Oh, sure! But in the showbiz, you kinda gotta do that anyway, chum!” She paused, tilting her head like before. “If you’re here for the circus,” she began, “you’re kinda in the wrong tent.”

“Strangely enough, I’m not here for the circus. I’m on the run. Now, let’s make this easy so nobody gets in trouble, alright?” The tone of irritation Fritz put on was enough to make Annelie wince. The dragon-- Liger, as it was called-- began its growling again.

The circus girl put her hand on Liger again. “Gosh, Liger, you angry ol’ chum! Be a good boy! The guy just needs some time to relax. Leave him be.”

She patted the dragon’s scales a couple of times, then started to step towards Fritz. “I don’t believe I ever caught your name?” She said, waving her hand in a circular motion, prompting Fritz to tell her.

He shook his head. “You don’t need to know it.”

“Why, I feel like I might! I caught ya dozin’ in my-- well, not _my_ , per se, more like my dad’s-- tent. You’re lucky I’m nice enough to leave you with a warning.” She crossed her arms, trying to seem intimidating. She held a bit of an angry pout, and if Fritz were not mistaken, so did Liger.

The thief merely shook his head again and smiled. “Warning taken. I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said, finally fully turning to look at her and taking an extravagant bow.

Annelie’s eyes lit up, a smile grew on her face instead of the pout. “Ooo, your bow is just lovely! What a performance!”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” replied Fritz, “I’m no--”

From behind him the clunking of heavy metal armor was heard again. Fritz turned, quickly, sneaking back into the shadows of the crates.

“Where’s he at?” A rough voice from outside the tent yelled.

Annelie glanced at the shadows formed from outside the tent, then caught eyes to silently communicate with Liger, who stalked over to block Fritz from eyes outside. She nodded in appreciation, then went over and crouched next to Fritz.

“C’mon, I’ll hide you in the big top. We have a performance about to happen anyway--”

“Are you stupid? I can’t be like a sittin’ duck while Alberian cats are on my tail!”

She shrugged. “No, not stupid, but I know they won’t be able to find you while the performance is going on. Trust me, chum! You could also use a little bit of relaxation. Maybe you’ll be nicer, too.”

Fritz sighed. “Alright, if I get caught though, you’ll regret it.”

Annelie bounced back onto her toes, her hat continuing its spritely jingling. “You’re just the kindest, aren’t ya? Just come with me!” She held out her hand to Fritz, closing her hands a few times to encourage him to grab hold.

As Fritz stared at the circus girl’s gloved hand, he found himself hesitating from grabbing it. It occurred to him just how _long_ it had been since he had felt touch. Warm, live touch. It must’ve been _years_. He didn’t remember the last time he was embraced, the last time he held a hand, the last time he felt another being near him that wasn’t cold, dead, or dying. It must’ve been when his parents were still alive-- a time he couldn’t remember well.

Small flashes of memories overcame his vision: a smile with no face, a hand on a shoulder, the sounds of a man laughing, warmth and joy in the arms of someone...

Before he knew it, he had grabbed hold of Annelie’s hand, who helped hoist him up from the ground. He could hear slow growling from the dragon’s throat. His green claws became much more noticeable than before.

“Liger!” Annelie’s head whipped around with the same intensity as a rattlesnake. As the dragon backed down, Annelie tugged on Fritz’s hand to lead him out of the tent.

Fritz, on a whim, cleared his throat and spoke. “Fritz.”

The Sylvan girl’s ears turned towards him, to which her head followed. “Hm? What’dya say?”

“Fritz,” the thief repeated. “My name is Fritz.”

Annelie smiled. “Well, it’s nice to meetcha, Fritz!”

Fritz couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s bubbly nature.

For years and years, he was known as “boy”, as “rat”, as “thief”. His name was hardly uttered, truthfully only to himself to remind him that he _had_ a name. Nobody ever bothered to ask for it. They saw the cloak he’d bare and the knives on his belt and assume him to be mere garbage. A sewer rat, stealing with a guild to survive on the sorrows of others. That’s how others viewed him.

It was nice to not be feared for once. It was nice to be called by his name.

-

_“Ladies and gentl_ emen! Boys and girls!” The performer announced among the crowd, a baton in one gloved hand, a torch in the other. “Prepare to be amazed!”

The people around Fritz applauded with the might of a thousand thunderclaps, nearly deafening the thief as he sat on wooden bleachers inside of the big top. The performer began to swing the baton, until both ends had swung through the flame, both erupting in a bright blaze that framed him as he twirled the baton. The oohs and aahs of the crowd grew with every trick the performer executed, and Fritz watched starry-eyed as the flames created momentary lineart in the darkened tent. The baton drew pictures of fiends and knights, a story being narrated as the performer swirled and twirled.

It was a story of a knight with the mission to defeat a fiend terrorizing a poor village. The knight rode into battle, sword drawn, determination on his face as he fought for days and days against this unrelenting monster. At times the knight grew weary, unsure of defeat, but the memory of a lovely girl from the village gave him the strength to continue the battle until the fiend was dead and the village was saved. The knight grew victorious, the sole protector of this village. It was an inspiring tale indeed.

The performer stopped his twirling, and the baton’s flames went out. There was a roaring applause from the crowd, and Fritz found himself cheering along as the baton twirler ducked off the center ring and another pair of performers entered the stage.

The acts continued on, from trapeze artists to people with extraordinary flexibility, a couple with an insane balance act, a couple of clowns, and a sword swallower. There were gasps and anxious breaths taken as performances of danger ensued, large smiles and beams during comedic or enjoyable acts. Fritz was immersed in the circus’ performances. He felt relaxed, at ease-- a feeling he hadn’t truly felt for years. His hypervigilant air had dissipated during the show. He no longer shifted his eyes from exit to exit, he followed the performers while they went about their routines.

The final act was in preparation, and excited murmuring lapped the crowd. It occured to Fritz that Annelie hadn’t been a part of any of the acts before, until the curtain at the back of the center ring flew open with the tiny Sylvan girl on the back of Liger.

The dragon pounced into the ring, Annelie gripping onto the handle of a dragon-sized saddle. Liger let out a ferocious roar, and applause rang out and bounced along the big top walls, the crowd enamored with the girl and her dragon companion.

“Ladies and germs!” Annelie announced, a giggle slipping through, “I, Annelie the Marvelous, am here to show you a spectacle never seen in any of your lives! My buddy here, Liger, and I are to show you the dragon-taming act of the century, all without a pact!”

Liger bowed with Annelie, still perched on his back as a round of applause left the audience. From the side of the ring, some of the performers were wheeling hoops and fences for the dragon to jump. A tunnel was also rolled out to be put alongside the edge of the ring.

Annelie clambered off of the saddle, and with a snap, Annelie had Liger’s attention. “Ready?” She asked the creature, and the dragon roared in response.

She flung her hand to the side, and the dragon ran and leapt through the hoop, sleek as a cat. Liger stuck the landing gracefully and bowed. He then jumped over the fence hurdles, mimicking waves on the surface of a lake. He crawled into the tube, sprinting through to the end. As he emerged out of the tunnel, the audience went wild.

A troupe member brought out a torch and lit the ring and the fences, both erupting into blue flames. Multiple gasps and “oh Ilia”s came from the crowd. Annelie turned towards them, smiled, then turned back towards Liger, who trotted up to her. She climbed onto the saddle and the two took off on the obstacle course.

Fritz was on the edge of his seat as the two leaped through to ring of fire, both unscathed. He found his hand up by his mouth, chewing on dirt-ridden nails as Annelie and Liger hopped over flaming hurdles. When they came to the tunnel, Annelie hopped off of the saddle and ran along the top of the tunnel, where Liger’s back protruded, to hop back onto the saddle a moment later.

Thunderous applause from the engaged audience deafened Fritz, but he joined along the applause nonetheless. Many people had begun to give a standing ovation to the Sylvan girl, and Fritz stood among them, bringing his fingers to his mouth to whistle an encouragement.

Annelie and Liger bowed forward, then turned towards the audience to the left, then the right, and then another bow altogether. The rest of the troupe ran up and joined them, repeating that same bowing routine again.

An older Sylvan man with similar ears to Annelie came out from the back, hobbling on a cane. He waved at everyone, then slowly moved his hands as to silence the audience.

“Thank you, everyone! Your applause means everything to us. We hope you enjoyed the show!” His booming projected voice caused another excited uproar among the audience, and the amount of clapping and shouts and whistles overloaded the senses for all.

As people began to file out of the big top, Fritz gazed over the ring, a smile on his face. In the sea of people, he slipped out into the open glade, where the crowd dispersed on their separate ways.

Fritz slipped back into the storage tent. There, Annelie was taking the saddle off of Liger, petting him and muttering praises for the show. Her hat had been abandoned on the ground by a crate, and her short blonde hair was in disarray from the show.

She looked up and saw Fritz, a smile forming on her face. “How’d you like the show?” She asked, excitedly, in a childlike tone.

“It was absolutely wonderful. Your troupe is...very talented,” Fritz replied.

“Thanks for the compliments, chum! We all appreciate ‘em.” She went back to handling Liger.

A silence formed between the two, and Fritz developed a ridiculous idea.

“ _Y’know, a circus would be an interesting change of pace._ ” He thought to himself.

After a moment, Fritz cleared his throat. “So, uh...are you guys looking for new blood?”

Annelie stopped for a moment, then focused her attention back on Fritz. “You have a talent?”

Fritz shifted his weight from leg to leg, his hands in his pockets. Suddenly, every dagger on his body seemed to be made of lead.

There were two in each of his sleeves, two in each of his boots. He had three on a belt, and two strapped to his chest under his shirt. He felt weighed down by every silver blade hidden on his person.

“I throw knives. Just’a lil trick I’ve picked up over the years.”

Annelie shrugged. “Show me.”

Fritz shifted his right wrist, and a knife fell into his hand. In a split second, he had thrown the knife into the crate nearest him. In another second, the other knife from his right sleeve was in his hand, and he whipped around and stuck it in the little space between the “ _Cirque_ ” and “ _Alberia_ ” on a crate on the far left of the tent.

Annelie watched, her arms crossed over her chest. “Impressive,” she commented. “Can you hit any target?”

Fritz walked over to the crates to retrieve his blades. “Any target you’d like.”

Annelie nodded her head towards a pole in the corner, keeping the tent up in place.

The pole couldn’t of been more than a foot in diameter, and stood roughly 20 yards away. It was an easy target for Fritz.

Another flick of his left wrist, and another dagger fell into his palm. In another split-second, the knife was lodged in the pole.

Annelie’s eyes had brightened, and she had a beaming smile on her face. Her ears were perked up as she watched. “Can you hit moving targets?” She asked, almost too excitedly.

“I can. I never miss what I set my eyes on.”

“Oooh! I love that! I’ll talk to my father-- he’s the ring leader, you see-- he’s sure to be interested in your talents!” She ran over to her hat, putting it back on, then rushing over to Fritz and grabbing his hand. “Knife-throwing! What a spectacle!” She had begun tugging him towards the opening of the tent. “You’ll attract loads of crowds! We’ll have the best circus yet!”

-

“ _Please explain t_ o me again why you’re having me try on all of these frills?”

Lids of crates had been pried off and discarded, and the contents of many were strewn along the ground. Annelie sat, surrounded by extravagantly sparkly cloths of various colors, her hand raised to her chin in deep, intensive thought.

Fritz, on the other hand, was stripped of his mangy cloak and put in a busy purple dress shirt. The buttons were made of yellow diamonds (or, truthfully, probably just glass) and had strings of silver layered throughout the fabric. He was also accessored with a matching cravat, adorned with similar jewels on the knot. He adorned a darker violet vest, with a strange pair of dress pants with one solid colored leg of the vest’s purple, then a checkered pattern of the dress shirt and vest shades.

“Every good performer needs a costume to match,” She commented, her other hand reaching towards a green pile of fabric with an indecisive demeanor. “Would this green work…?” She commented, mostly to herself, before shaking her head. “No, no…” She went back to her deliberating.

A dejected sigh escaped from Fritz’s lips. He glanced over the piles, finding no interest until he came across a bundle of yellow sitting closer to the costume crates. The thief-- thief no longer, as it would-- bent down to pick up the bundle. He shook it slightly of the grass blades that stuck, and found in his hands a honey-colored suit jacket, extravagantly gaudy, yet charming still in nature with orange lapels and golden rope ornamentation. And the end of the coattails, a moon and a star ornament of bronze and silver respectively hung and jangled. The jingle made Annelie turn her head, her ears perking up and a beam lit up her face.

“Oh! That’s it! Great work, chum!” She jumped right up, her lamb-like ears bouncing and she stood, and grabbing the coat from Fritz’s hands. “Perfect! Here, try it on,” The Sylvan girl said, pushing the garment back towards Fritz, waiting anxiously for him to put it on.

The coat felt like it were made to fit him, as if it were his own skin. Fritz smiled to himself, Annelie bouncing around him, excitedly jabbering about his act and how it will “wow the crowd”, as she so excitedly put it. He walked, strutted around in the new costume, finding himself beaming as Annelie clapped for him, and Liger let out some amused mewls. The Sylvan girl quickly ran to an accessories crate, pried off the lid, then reached inside and grabbed a headband with a small top hat attached, positioned slightly off center. She bounced back over the Fritz, presenting the headband to him. Fritz put it on, shifting until it was comfortable.

Annelie stepped back to admire Fritz’s costume, before frowning for a moment. “Wait a minute, something’s missin’...”

Fritz shrugged, then gestured towards Annelie’s face. “Stage makeup?”

“Oh! Oh!! Of course!” She exclaimed, sprinting over to another crate. She pulled out a pallet and a brush, beginning to dip it into different colors, then smiling to herself. “I have an idea, Fritzy. Sit down, you’re too tall.”

Fritz obeyed, smiling humorously at the girl’s enthusiasm. The Sylvan began to paint on his face, under his left eye. She worked carefully, coloring in shapes with meticulous strokes.

“Y’know,” She mentioned, “We have people in the troupe who are supposed to do this for us, but I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job!”

“Are you sure?” He quipped, smirking.

Annelie lifted her brush from Fritz’s face. She pouted, lifting the pallet to bop Fritz on the head. “Be nice!” She light-heartedly scolded. Annelie couldn’t hide the grin on her face. She put the brush back to Fritz’s cheek, finished her painting, then backed away. “Looking sharp!” She said, Fritz standing. Annelie grabbed a mirror sitting nearby, showing Fritz the makeup she designed. Under his left eye were four purple diamonds, following the slope of his cheekbone.

"Like mine, see?" She said, pointing to her own hot pink triangles under her eye.

Fritz nodded. He spun once, striking a pose. “Ladies and Gentle-germs!” He announced, twirling again. “Welcome to the show!”

Annelie let out a child-like giggle. “You’re a natural!”

He smiled as Annelie laughed. A thought began to cross Fritz’s mind, slowly, but then shadowed any amount of doubt he could have-- perhaps, just _perhaps_ , this is what he was meant to do.

-

_Dear Ilia, Fri_ tz was not prepared for the work that goes into a circus performance, even after a year and few months he had resided with them. Rehearsals lasting hours in the day, an outstanding performance, then to a constant jubilee-like celebration nightly of their success for hours into the night.

He acclimated well, however, into the groove of how the troupe ran. They accepted him with open arms; “After all,” mentioned one of the trapeze artists, “Any friend of Miss Annelie’s is a friend of ours!”

The troupe ended up being much larger than Fritz originally anticipated. There were more than just performers-- there were makeup and costume artists, personal trainers, some were even merely patrons who traveled around with them serving the troupe however seeming fit. There was a warm sense of kinship between the lot. Fritz adored it-- he lacked the word to describe the camaraderie he felt from the troupe.

He had expressed these feelings to Annelie at one point. It was late, many of the troupe had gone to sleep in preparation for the next day’s show. The area where they camped was said to be inhabited by ruffians. Fritz and Annelie had offered to keep first watch. They sat on cool grass around a blazing fire, both the Sylvan and the performer glowing in a toasty orange light. In the blades beside Fritz was a metal tin of silver polish.

Annelie had her hand to her chin, a common gesture Fritz learned to indicate she was thinking. “So you feel...warm around the troupe?” She asked, her head tilting as she looked at the man.

“Yeah, so it seems,” he said. “It’s strange to feel. You know where I came from, I’ve never felt warmth a day in my life.”

Annelie smiled softly. “It’s family.”

Fritz turned to look at her. “Family?”

She nodded. “Yeah, family. Y’know, sometimes family goes beyond blood.”

The thought never occurred to Fritz.

“There’s a saying,” Annelie continued, grabbing a stick and poking at the campfire. “‘ _The blood of comrades is thicker than the water of the womb’_. My dad says it all the time. He taught me, early on, that the bonds we create are stronger than any blood relation. The bonds of the troupe is stronger than the connection my father has to his family, or to my mother’s, or _mine_ , I suppose.”

Fritz nodded slightly. “I guess I never really had a _family_. It’s strange to feel as if I have one now.” There was a pause. “Actually, that’s a bit of a lie, ain’t it? The guild was my first family.”

“Some kind of family,” Annelie said, “I would hardly call that a family. That was just a buncha chums with no sense of empathy.”

“Be nice,” Fritz jested, cracking a smile. He looked down at his hands, one holding a rag, the other holding one of his precious daggers. Daggers used, daggers praised by the family he had with the guild.

“They sure weren’t! It’s no matter, though. You have a real family now, don'tcha?”

Fritz shrugged. “I s’pose I do.” He smiled towards Annelie, then began to focus back on the dagger he was polishing.

They sat in silence, Annelie poking at the fire, Fritz polishing his knives. After a few minutes, Annelie set down her stick and stretched, a loud yawn emanating from the girl. She rubbed her eyes, soon standing.

“Goin’ to bed?” Fritz asked, rolling his shoulder to stretch.

Annelie nodded. “I’ll send someone else out. Are you gonna stay out here?”

Fritz held up the polishing rag. “I still have a couple daggers to polish. I’ll sleep soon.”

With that, Annelie sleepily stepped away from the firelight, heading back to the tent pitched up where the troupe slept.

An owl was heard in the distance, cooing in the midnight air. The trees were still, silent-- Fritz could hear even the smallest mouse skittering around the brush if he listened hard enough. It was eerie. Fritz felt _exposed_. The dark trees encased the woods behind him, looming over him and the fire beside him. Dark purple shadows seemed to move within the treeline.

He tried to focus back on his daggers, dipping the rag into the polish, but his mind always snapped to the trees behind him.

From behind Fritz came a voice.

“So you think you can run from the guild, kid?”

Fritz stood, his dagger already poised and ready. In the shadows came a figure, cloaked in the low moonlight. From the light of the fire, Fritz could recognize the very cloak he once bore. The shadows in the trees melted into other figures, two more shapes appearing on either side of the first.

“Boss really didn’t appreciate you up and leavin’ on us,” Another voice said, gruffer than the first.

Fritz squeezed on the dagger’s handle. “Why would he care?”

“Aye, yer the star of the show! He lost the best mate in the guild. Why _wouldn’t_ he care?”

“I’m done,” Fritz growled. “I’m never goin’ back to that cat. I spent too damn long doin’ his bidding.”

“He’s not gonna like that.”

“And I don’t give a rat’s ass about what he likes!” The dagger escaped his palm, striking the figure in the middle in the shoulder.

The guild member let out a cry of pain, falling to his knees. He reached for the dagger, pulling it out from the wound, and bright red blood came gushing from the hole. It spattered upon the grass as he fell forward, painting the greenery crimson as he bled out with final moans of pain. The dagger rolled from his fingertips as he let out a few shuddering breaths. The two others readied their weapons, lunging towards Fritz.

The performer sidestepped as a goon swiped at him with a knife, another dagger entering Fritz’s palm as it fell from his sleeve. He lodged the dagger between the shoulders of the goon, unaware of the opening he made, allowing the other goon to come at him point-blank with a bow.

The arrow embedded itself into his side, stinging with blinding pain. The edges of his vision grew dark. The arrow, per guild usual, was laced with a poison agent, meant to cause extreme pain to the target.

Fritz screamed. His fists clenched, his entire body throbbing as waves upon waves of pain encapsulated him. He fell to the ground, bleeding from his side. Crimson began to stain the lavender shirt he wore as the fabric soaked up the blood. He managed to turn his head towards the goon who had already knocked another arrow. The goon held the arrowpoint to Fritz’s forehead, pricking the skin, before backing away to deliver a killing blow.

“Oh no you don’t!” Came a bubbly voice, out of Fritz’s line of sight.

The goon was kicked down, and Annelie stood over him, holding a spear to his chest. Her ears were laid back against the side of her head, a furious look upon her face. Following her was Liger, prepared to pounce at any given moment.

“You are NOT killing this guy to-day! No-siree-bob!” She pushed the point of the spear down as she spoke. “So you BEST pack up and get the heck outta here!”

The goon nodded profusely. “I-I will! Please let me go!”

“And if I EVER!” Annelie continued, a fiery look coming from her eyes, “And I mean EVER, see any of you chums EVER AGAIN, I will have my dragon rip you LIMB-FROM-LIMB!”

As a confirmation, Liger let out a deafening roar.

“I understand! I understand!” Plead the goon.

Annelie lifted the spear from his chest. “So, GET OUT!”

The goon stood, stumbling, then running back into the woods. He turned back to find the fearsome girl staring at him, which caused him to run even faster. As the crunching of branches and brush dissipated, Annelie turned back towards Fritz, then to the two dead goons lying in the grass.

Annelie quickly knelt by Fritz, who was still breathing but seemed to be unconscious. She looked over the wound Fritz had been inflicted with, gasping as her hand became covered with blood. Liger padded over to the man on the ground, nudging him with his nose. The dragon mewled, almost pitifully, waiting for Fritz to open his eyes, stand up, say he was okay.

A couple of troupe members had already come to grab him and take him to one of their healers. By then, Fritz had begun to come to again.

Days passed and Fritz was on constant bedrest. He periodically felt a blinding pain come from his side, from where he was shot, but it was nowhere near as constant or intense as when the arrow first pierced his side.

The sun shone on him from the side tent where he laid. The cot itched, and was a foot shorter than he was; his legs fell off of it. The blanket itched almost as bad as the stretched cot he laid on. It was no matter to him, though-- beats laying on musty hay anyday.

He stared at the pale whiteness of the tent cover, the sun dyeing the fabric a warm yellow-cream color. The shadows of leaves from the trees blanketed the sight, and the wind blew and sang a lovely springtime song from the outside. Songbirds warbled in the afternoon sun, filling the empty tent with a marvelous tune. A trill or two cut into the songbird’s harmony.

“This is my life now, ain’t it?” He muttered to himself, “Listening to songbirds?”

He sighed, continuing to dwell in the birds’ song.

His mind began to wander. He hadn’t thought of the interaction with the thieves guild goons since it happened.

Fritz couldn’t help but feel... _guilt_. He killed two more people, even after vowing to never let his dagger cut down another human being again.

The trickle began.

How would those goons be remembered? Even Bennet was forgotten after some time, but the sight of the grown man choking on his own blood, a halberd point sticking out of his chest, could and would never be forgotten by Fritz’s mind.

He remembered every face he killed. The trickle became a small stream. Every face of terror, of unsuspecting pain, of surprise and of horror. He remembered every bag he had snatched from cold hands, long dead after he raided the rest of someone’s shop or room or vaults.

He remembered the blood crusting on his daggers-- after Bennet’s death, he began to polish them. He saved for a new set and some polish, and every night got to work on making sure they were spick and span. The polish would burn his hands through the rag, leaving them crusty, cracked, and red. Sometimes, if he were at it too long, the cracks would split open and his hands would bleed onto the dagger he was polishing. Then, the process was repeated again.

The polish cleansed the daggers of their sins, but what of Fritz’s? Nothing could ever cleanse him, no amount of water or polish in the god-forsaken country could. Yet he still tried, he tried to cleanse himself of every murder he committed with every pass over a dagger with the polishing rag.

How many passes would it take? The stream continued into a running current.

Fritz could feel his chest was slowly filling, he felt as if he were drowning from the inside out. He coughed, hoping it would clear whatever is filling his lungs, but that only tore at the wound in his side--

The goons. Lifeless on the grass, green stained red. A dagger sticking out of one’s back, the other’s shoulder...what happened to them?

Fritz found himself laying on his side, dry-heaving over the side of the cot. He was taken back to the day Bennet was killed, when he vomited in front of the village entrance. Instead of throwing up, he merely dry heaved.

His eyes burned, he begged for the thoughts to stop, to _stop_. He prayed that Ilia would take his life in that moment. He looked up, seeing his precious daggers laying over the top of a crate. The very daggers used for entertainment, also used to kill.

Tears flowed from his eyes in rambunctious waterfalls. He felt dirty. He felt vile. _What could he do to be pure again?_

-

_Fritz made a_ speedy recovery. The wound closed, healed, and before he knew it he was back in the ring.

“Ladies and Gentle-germs!” He called, waving his arm out to the crowd, strutting alongside the ring. “Welcome to a masterpiece of a performance, one you will never forget!”

He turned, quickly, launching a dagger across the big top to hit a target on the other side. “Oohs” and “Aahs” emerged from the crowd. Dear Ilia, Fritz loved the sounds.

“I, Fritz the Wonderful, Fritz the Magnificent, beseech you-- feast your eyes upon my marvelous dagger-throwing skills!” He threw his arm up, a dagger in hand, and threw it towards a target behind him. The crowd roared in approval.

Movement caught his eye by the entrance to the big top, a tall man in a gaudy suit stood by the entrance. He stared at Fritz with an intense gaze, one hand raised to his chin, and the other crossing over his body as he held his elbow. Fritz paid him no mind, continuing his routine and continuously wowing the crowd.

He worked them like clay, shaping and charming the entire crowd with a flick of the wrist. He was a _natural_ , flipping and somersaulting, hitting targets with his eyes closed. Fritz felt on top of the world, nobody would ever begin to guess that a few days earlier he was still healing from a nasty wound. The audience roared with anticipation and delight.

The end of Fritz’s act came soon. He bowed, thanked the crowd, then strutted through the back of the tent.

He sighed, stretching as he walked. He left the big top to a side tent where the troupe waited for their cue to go onstage. Upon entering, he could hear Annelie’s frantic voice while speaking to some troupe members.

“Wait, what do you mean, that Circus Dragalia is here?” She asked, panicky. Her face was sheet white, her ears pressed against her head, her fists clenched into her dress. Liger stood beside her, flicking his tail back and forth, a low growl arising in his throat.

“Ma’am, I can’t explain why--” One troupe member said, backing away slightly from the dragon. “All I know is their ringleader came here wanting to speak to your father!”

 

“In the middle of a show? Don’t they know some amount of courtesy?”

“I-I--” stuttered the troupe member.

A man on a cane-- the ringleader, Annelie’s father-- hobbled over to the frantic girl, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Now, now,” he began, “Surely they’re here to wish good luck upon us and the troupe.”

The ringleader was known universally in the troupe to be a lovely, caring Sylvan man, who sees each troupe member as his own child. He emanated a fatherly warmth, always ready to be a paternal figure for anyone in need. Back in his day, he was a master dragon tamer as well, passing on his talents to a daughter with equal aptitude for the act. He had similar ears to his daughter, but his stood up more, and the tips were graying with age. His long, curly hair had a similar graying to it, the yellow becoming paler and paler until it was almost white. He had prominent crows feet by his eyes, and wrinkles of age that proved the wisdom the old man had to give. He wore a loud red jacket with a flowing white button up and red slacks. He was a sight of a man-- simultaneously at the peak of health and the weariness of age.

“Dad, I’m not so sure about that one,” Annelie refuted, placing her hands on her hips defiantly. “Whenever they show up, it almost always means trouble.”

The ringleader smiled. “I believe you’re making judgements based solely on the fact that they’re our rivals.”

“When have they ever brought anything good to the troupe? They always ‘swing by’,” Annelie said, making air quotes as she spoke, “And then snatch some of our members like children grabbin’ pastries in a basket!”

Fritz found himself standing a couple feet away, crossing his arms, merely listening. In the months he’d been with the troupe, he’d heard of the ever elusive “Circus Dragalia” and the rivalry between Cirque Alberia and Circus Dragalia.

Circus Dragalia presented as a larger-than-life, incredibly extravagant troupe of performers. With fire-breathers, sword-swallowers, trapeze artists, and other dangerous acts, the troupe boasted that they could steal every customer from any other traveling circus in Graestaea. They had been known to win many an award at traveling circus competitions. Why they had a certain bone to pick with Cirque Alberia seemed to be unknown, but it was said that only Annelie’s father knew the answer, and that he was content with taking the reason to the grave.

“Annelie, now is not the time to get worked up! You’re on stage in a few minutes,” her father said, turning the girl around and guiding her towards the opening of the tent. “Make sure you do a hell of a performance out there, kiddo.”

“Of course I will, Dad,” Annelie responded, climbing onto Liger and preparing to take off into the big top. “But if Liger sees any of those chums from Circus Dragalia…”

“They will fear his wrath, I know.” He went over to Liger, patting the dragon’s face a few times. “Be sweet now, Liger. There’ll be no ripping apart circus members today.”

The dragon made a melancholy mewl, and the two were off onto the big top.

Annelie’s father sighed deeply, turning around and looking at the other troupe members scrambling to get ready for their own performances. He walked towards the center of the tent, smiled, then turned back to the opening of the big top.

He passed by Fritz, who was still standing a bit away from where the previous commotion was. “Fritz, my boy,” He called, nodding towards the knife thrower, “Come over here, wouldn’t ya?”

Fritz walked over to him, beginning to walk with him towards the big top. “Yes, sir?” He tentatively asked.

“How are ya feeling? You did great out there, I couldn’t even tell you were injured!” He let out a booming laugh, then looked towards Fritz with a comforting gaze.

“I was just fine out there, sir. Never felt better.”

“That’s great to hear, Fritz.” He pushed aside the curtain, allowing Fritz to enter the big top first.

In the center ring, Annelie was putting on her performance. She hopped through rings and through tunnels. The audience roared with plentiful enjoyment.

“Son, do you think she’d make a fine ringleader?”

Fritz paused for a second, taking in the young Sylvan’s performance. “I feel like she could. She’s pretty talented, I feel like with some good trainin’ she’d be just as great as you.”

He smiled a proud smile, watching his daughter’s magnificent performance. “I’m glad to hear that, son. I really am.”

Fritz crossed his arms, turning his head towards the ringleader. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout retirin’ soon. Circus tradition, next in line is ringleader’s child. My pops was this very circus’ ringleader, and my grandfather before him, and my great-grandmother before that! Annelie’s got what it takes. She was born to do this. It’s in her blood.”

“How do ya think Annelie would feel about that?” Fritz clapped as he watched her pull off a particularly difficult stunt, standing on one foot on Liger’s back while he jumped over hurdles. He’d remembered her practicing into the late hours of the night to land that stunt, and her excitement when she finally pulled it off.

Her father clapped alongside Fritz, then brought his fingers to his lips to loudly whistle for her. The girl turned her head as she began her bows, smiling wide, waving excitedly towards him then to the crowd. Her father chuckled. “Oh, she’ll hit the damn ceiling. But she’ll come around, I’m sure of it. You’re a good friend of hers though, Fritz, I ask you to be there for her and help her with whatever she needs.”

“You won’t need to worry, sir. I’ll help her however I can.”

“‘Atta boy. The troupe’s in good hands,” He paused. “Now get on stage. Final bows are comin’.”

“Thank you for trustin’ me, sir,” Fritz said, nodding towards him. He then turned, running over to the entrance to the center ring, joining the other troupe members for final bows.

He grasped hands with his fellow troupe, bowing for an audience with rambunctious, thunderous applause. Wide beams covered Fritz’s and everyone else’s faces as they waved, the audience waving back at them as they stood and left the big top.

Fritz looked over at Annelie, who smiled and waved. He could see beneath her smile that something was off. He could sense her anxiety, her worry-- he was afraid of her reaction when her father would break the news to her.

Even Fritz knew that she wouldn’t react well. He vowed to help her however he could.

“ _The troupe’s in good hands._ ” The words bounced around Fritz’s head.

“ _It is,_ ” He thought to himself. “ _There’s no better circus than when Annelie’s in charge._ ”

The troupe had already gathered back into the back tent. They had gathered together, forming a semi-circle around Annelie’s father and another man.

“I wish to congratulate you on your well-earned retirement, my good sir!” A voice said, high-pitched and nasally. “It is quite an honor to meet with you before this occasion.”

The source of the voice was a tall, lanky man with a long nose. He had cat-like eyes, lids dropped with a mischievous grin. He wore a full suit, covered head-to-toe in gleaming red sequins that caught the lamplight of the tent. He was snarky, and held himself with an annoying sort of pride-- Fritz didn’t like him as soon as he set eyes on him.

“Oh, for the goddess’s sake!” Annelie hissed, ears flat back, clenching her fists as she gazed over the man.

“Who’s that?” Fritz asked, whispering to Annelie as she boiled in anger.

“Maximus Eldera, the ringleader for Circus Dragalia,” She replied.

“Legend has it that he is the most pompous asshole in the land,” A troupe member muttered under their breath.

Annelie’s father smiled in a genuine way. “I appreciate the sentiment, Maximus. Tell me now, how are you and your troupe faring? Well, I hope?”

 

“Oh, we’ve never been better! Sales have skyrocketed, my dear sir, and are only projected to go _up,_ ” He rose one hand into the air, “ _Up,_ ” He continued, raising the other one, “ _AND UP!_ ” The man spun on his foot, completing his twirl than bowing before Annelie’s father.

“An impressive maneuver there, Maximus! I’m glad the troupe’s doing well.”

“Thank you, my good sir, I thank you kindly.” Maximus scanned the crowd, then locked eyes with Fritz. Maximus had a gaze that cut like sharpened knives. It was cold, it stung, and it unsettled every root of Fritz’s soul. The rival ringleader began to take peculiar steps towards him, holding his gaze the entire time.

“My good sir,” Maximus began, “Who might you be? I’m afraid I’ve never seen your face before.”

Fritz didn’t break eye contact. “It’s none of your damn business who I am.”

Maximus held a shocked hand to his chest. “Oh! How rude. May I ask again,” He said, taking another step towards Fritz. “Who? Are? You?”

Fritz was taller than him by around half a foot. Although lanky, Fritz was visibly bigger than the ring leader. The two’s staredown resembled a kitten staring down a hound, but the intensity between the two emitted energy as strong as a lion glaring at a wolf.

Annelie stood up beside Fritz. “He’s nobody of your concern.”

The rival ringleader glared towards Annelie, then whipped his attention right back to Fritz. “I saw you performing earlier, with your little knife spectacle. Clever, creative, isn’t it? How wondrous, a knife thrower!”

“What about it?” Fritz demanded, crossing his arms. His blades felt heavy beneath his sleeves.

Maximus shrugged, attempting to be nonchalant. “Well, I feel it’s impressive. Y’know, my troupe doesn’t have a knife-thrower.” He waved his spindly hand around as he spoke, animated in even the smallest of actions.

“There’s a fat chance in hell that I’d ever join the likes of you.”

“Now that’s tragic, isn’t it?” Maximus stepped away. “There’s more talent in other acts than in your pinky, my good sir. More talent in this room!” He swept his arm along the crowd of troupe members, who looked at each other in worry.

Fritz rolled his eyes. Annelie took a step forward, but Fritz held his arm in front of her, blocking her from moving, whispering to her as Maximus ranted. “He’s not worth it, Annelie.”

“You’re just gonna let him insult you like that?” She retaliated.

“This is my battle. Leave it.”

Annelie’s father stepped forward. “Maximus, my friend, there’s no need to be like that. I appreciate your sentiments for my retirement.”

Maximus shot his head towards the elderly troupe leader, then towards the troupe. “Listen here, hear ye! This man will depart. You won’t grow without a capable leader, and that leader shall be _me!_ Listen to your talents! I am the answer! You all will know where to find me, where the cheers and money will go! GoodNIGHT!”

And with that, the gaudy man sauntered out of the tent, throwing his arms out and pushing the flaps of the entrance with intense vigor.

A murmur unfurled over the crowd of performers as they slowly dispersed. Fritz eventually stood alone in the tent, pondering the earlier encounter. The lamplight was growing low.

He sighed, and began to make his way towards the bunk tent. From outside, a long hoot of an owl nearby filled whatever space remained in Fritz’s focus. The stars above, usually so beautiful in his eyes, caught no amount of his attention. Grass crunched under his feet as he crossed the small courtyard to the other tent, absorbed by the gentle background of the night.

-

_Annelie’s prayers t_ o Ilia went unanswered.

Fritz watched as the troupe bid goodbye to her father, then almost immediately cut down more than half from Maximus’s troupe snatching them, just as Annelie forewarned. He remembered the empty look in the circus girl’s eyes as she watched the turned backs of her chosen family fade into the horizon.

“We’ll be alright,” Fritz said, turning to the remaining members.

There weren’t many, if Fritz were to be completely honest. Their makeup artist, a couple of trapeze artists, the tightrope walker, and the same baton twirler from Fritz’s first encounter with the circus remained. Liger remained. Annelie remained. As did Fritz.

Annelie gazed at her hands, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Her ears dropped low as the tears began to spill. “I...I’ve already failed…”

Fritz turned towards her. This was the first time he’d ever seen Annelie cry.

“ _By the Goddess above, I never want to see her cry again._ ”

“Annelie,” Fritz coaxed, kneeling by her. “We’ll be fine. You haven’t failed, this is just’a bump in the road if anything. You’ll get over this, I promise you. We’ll be the best damn troupe this world’s ever seen.”

The baton twirler stepped forwards, clapping his hand on Annelie’s shoulder. “Exactly, kiddo! I wouldn’t trust the troupe with anyone else.”

Annelie wiped her eyes. “I appreciate it, guys. I can’t let dad down,” She sniffled, looking at the remaining troupe members. “We can’t let dad down. C’mon chums! We best be off.” She popped back onto her feet, her hands on her hips, and began to walk down the path.

Fritz smiled. He knew that the young girl wasn’t feeling as happy-go-lucky as she appeared, but her unbridled enthusiasm intoxicated the troupe surrounding her, leading them all to smile and nod. He stood, beginning to follow Annelie as she took off down the path, opposite the way Maximus took his troupe. Down a path that led to growth, to incredible feats, to seeing the world in a way Fritz had never seen before-- in a way that shone light onto an ever-growing dark world.

-

_“I want th_ e world to keep smiling,” Annelie had confided in Fritz, hands covered in orange dye as she ran her fingers through his bangs. “Even in these darkening times. That’s my one true wish.”

“That’s a damn good wish,” He replied, “I know you’ll be able to achieve it.”

The two friends sat in a tavern washroom. The lamplight flickered and sputtered, just enough to wash Annelie’s dye-covered hands in a warm bath of light. From the outside, the music and hustle and bustle of the lively bar leaked into the room. To their side was a water basin, fit with a hand pump. Beside Annelie’s foot, where she stood, was a small jar of orange pigment mixed with a binder. Fritz sat on the cold, stone ground, tall enough so that Annelie could comfortably reach his hair.

The decision to dye Fritz’s hair was one of spontaneity-- They were both stressed over the state of the troupe. Fritz had suggested the idea of a change in his appearance. Annelie recalled seeing jars of dyes in the general store of the town the troupe was camping near. One impulse purchase later, Fritz found himself with streaks of orange within his bangs.

Annelie worked the dye into his hair gently, careful as to not pull on the straw-colored strands as she did. The repetitive motion of her combing the dye through left Fritz feeling relaxed. She eventually held Fritz’s bangs in her palm, reaching down and grabbing another glob of dye to be worked into his hair. The dye spread slowly over his hair and Annelie’s palm. “Yeah, I sometimes still doubt myself though. Nothin’ against the troupe at all, I’m just afraid I can’t do it still, y’know? It’s been harder n’ harder to get customers with all of this imperialist stuff going on.”

Fritz hummed. “Oh yeah. That hasn’t been helpin’ business at all.”

His eyes shifted towards the ground. In the past months, business had declined significantly. The troupe, however, continued to perform despite the troubles. As they passed through different areas, they would hear of rumors surrounding the capital city, of horrors hitting the royal family, of the church losing its grasp on the protection of the continent.

“ _The Sacred Shard is weakening,_ ” Fritz had heard in passing.

“ _Something terrible has happened to the Auspex._ ”

“ _Imperialists have invaded the capital--_ ”

“ _The seventh son is a traitor--_ ”

“ _Fiends have popped up around the continent--_ ”

The horrific rumors Fritz heard were stressing enough. He didn’t know much about the political climate of Alberia; all he knew was that there were eight royal children, one of which is the Auspex, but not much else about it. He didn’t worry about the situation. He had never been affected before. Until now, that is.

“I’m worried that if this stuff keeps happenin’, we may not have a troupe anymore.” She let go of Fritz’s hair, letting the dyed chunk fall over Fritz’s face. She stared at her blotchy hands-- a gesture Fritz learned to mean she was upset.

“Annelie, stop that. Right now. No matter what, we’ll still _always_ have the troupe,” He looked up, dyed hair bouncing on the tip of his nose. “Remember that talk we had? The troupe is _family_. Family don’t give up on each other when times get rough. Even if we’re fightin’ off fiends and imperial asshats, we’ll still have our talents and our acts and most importantly? _Each other._ ”

Annelie nodded, her hands lowering as she listened to Fritz’s pep talk. “I let fear get the best of me sometimes.”

Fritz smiled at her. “You really gotta stop lettin’ that happen.”

“I’ll try.” She picked up the dye jar, about to screw the lid back on.

“If you keep lettin’ your fear get the best of ya, I’ll kick your ass.” There was no sincerity in the threat; he smiled at Annelie, filled with jest.

“Fritz, I will rub all of this hair dye all over your face right now. You’re gonna look like a peeled orange,” Annelie said, the corners of her mouth curling up in a joking manner.

He held his hands up in the air. “And ruin my presentation? A travesty for the show!”

“Oh, zip it, dummy!” She couldn’t get through her words without laughing. “We’re supposed to leave the dye in for half an hour. Do you wanna brave the outside tavern with your new ‘do?”

Fritz began to stand, the dyed portion of his bangs flopping around as he did. “May wanna just wait until this stuff is done doin’ its thing.”

Annelie looked at Fritz, then to the dirty mirror attached to the wall, dimly lit by the lamp just above it. “Y’know, Fritz? You look a lot different than when I first met you. Do you remember that?”

The performer looked over to the mirror Annelie was looking at, and took in the reflection of himself.

Years ago, back when he was still with the guild, he saw his reflection. In that mirror was a boy-- greasy, unkempt, _tired_. His entire face was covered in sweat, dirt and grime; his face was thin, hugging the curvature of his skull with malnutrition. Dark bags hugged his under eyelids during that time. He never slept well, never got rest, only a pause in the constant heists and raids that the Boss forced him to go on.

Goddess above, the Boss. Fritz hadn’t recalled that name in forever.

Now, with bangs saturated with orange pigment, waiting for the dye to develop, Fritz looked more alive. His eyes had a certain sparkle to them, the bags under his eyes faint. He felt healthier, looked better. His face was fuller, more attractive than the skin-and-bones of his past. Under his eye still were the remnants of stage makeup, his iconic diamonds following the curvature of his cheekbone.

“I remember,” he said, softly, after a moment of pondering his appearance. “I was hardly a human.”

“Now look at you. You look a lot better than you did.” She turned her head up to look at him. “I’m proud of you, Fritz.”

The words caught him off-guard, but caused him to smile nonetheless. “Thank you, Annelie. I...I really appreciate it. Genuinely.”

Annelie’s bubbly smile appeared. “You’re welcome, chum. Let’s get this dye out of your hair.”

Fritz nodded, taking one more glance in the mirror, dorkishly smiling as water from the hand pump began running into the slowly filling water basin-- clear, saturating with orange.

-

_This performance wa_ s like any other, a stop in a village with their humble troupe for the night. Nothing too extraordinary-- at least, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Fritz sat on a crate, swiping his polishing rag over his daggers one final time before the performance. His leg bounced, nervously. Even after the years he’d been in the troupe, he still got the pre-show jitters before each and every performance.

It sounded like a pretty packed house. Annelie strategically began to tour through harder-to-reach villages, who didn’t get many travelers in their areas. It led to a significant amount of money and customers pouring in. It was a genius idea, all in all. Fritz admired her for it.

It was a gamble to be in this village. There was a known group of Imperials inhabiting this area, making it all the more dangerous to perform in. Fritz remembered Annelie hearing a rumor from another troupe about the Empire cracking down on circuses. He knew that wouldn’t stop her. The Imperial dogs would have to pry the circus from Annelie’s cold, dead hands if they had to.

A couple minutes to showtime, and Annelie was nowhere to be seen. Fritz stood, dropping the rag on the crate he sat upon, readying himself near the entrance for his cue to open the show.

He pulled at his coat, shaking off the jitters, making sure his knives were all in place. He ran a careful hand through his bangs one last time. He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to find Annelie with a serious look on her face.

“If Imperials show up, keep going. I’ll handle them,” She said, peeking around the curtain to the crowd.

Fritz had no time to ask any questions, he was on.

“Ladies and Germs,” He projected, finding his arm sweeping the crowd, a dazzling smile on his face. “Welcome to a show unlike any other, welcome to _Cirque Alberia!_ ”

A dagger fell into his palm, escaping his hand as he twirled and lodged it into a target a couple of meters away. He posed, reaching his hand out toward the crowd, taking in their applause and whistles before he continued his routine.

Past his hand, he was pointing at a man with a pair of wide, ice-colored eyes in the crowd.

Fritz stared at the man for a moment, the realization setting in. For a moment, the scenery melted into that fateful night in Harmonia Academy.

_The ice eyes._

Fritz was frozen in the man’s wistful gaze for a moment. He looked just as he did on that day, from nearly ten years prior. The man with ice eyes stared with wonder. There was no fear to be detected upon his face.

Cheers and applause drowned out any thoughts in Fritz’s mind. The seconds became hours, every sense dulled as his eyes locked with the man’s. He had to tear his eyes away. Fritz began his routine again, working the crowd like magic, throwing his knives and trying to not focus on the man he saw in the crowd.

Just as he did all those years ago, the ice eyes wouldn’t leave his mind.


End file.
